


Dancing in the dark

by relentlessing



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: All characters are v minor except alex and eliza, Angst, Can't write 18th century speech yikes, F/M, Fluff, I'm a sucker for hamliza, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relentlessing/pseuds/relentlessing
Summary: A financial system and an orphanage weren't their only legacies.





	Dancing in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> ..this is basically the musical but with different scenes, ngl.

IT STARTS WITH A SPARK — a chance encounter, fate, luck.   
  
The moment their eyes meet from across the room, he knows he's a goner. Sure, he's seen the sisters — he's talking to one right now — but she is a different story. While her sisters are loud and dazzling, she emits a quiet kind of charm, an irresistible pull. It intrigues him.     
  
Angelica laughs at his awestruck face and pulls him to meet her.   
  
He forgets his name when she speaks. He asks about her last name instead and hopes she doesn't notice the diversion.   
  
Her eyes twinkle knowingly.   
  
In another universe, it would've never worked out; they're worlds apart — he's rash, she's patient, he's poor, she's rich, he's no one, she's a Schuyler, he's fire, she's ice, he's never satisfied, she's always content.   
  
But they do, for some elusive reason. Maybe it's their circumstances — the romantic idea of meeting in a war, that in such a terrible time, love can still live; the dreamlike candlelight casting soft shadows on their faces as they dance. Maybe it's him — his eyes, a deep azure with hints of violet, drowning her in their depths; his mind, and the worlds he keeps erasing and creating; his words, and the palaces they form. Maybe it's her — just her; funny how he's at a loss for words when she's involved.   
  
He writes her love letters, gives her pages and pages of flattery and praise until she falls. She loves him in spite of his flaws, overwhelms him with kindness and charms him until he's senseless.   
  
It's been two weeks since they met, but it feels like a lifetime. They can't get enough of each other.

So, it's only natural that he proposes, and she says yes.   
  
\-   
  
After he's paced across his bedroom for the umpteenth time, his friends make him sit down. Even then, his fingers tap agitatedly as he wonders what his fiancée really thinks of him. He doesn't have money, or troops, or fame to give her. They would be truly poor, and Eliza can't possibly support them both forever.   
  
He's already told her that a million times. Maybe now she would think he's long winded. But whatever the case—   
  
"She loves you, man." Laurens sighs, but a glimmer of mischief in his eyes gives away his faux exasperation.   
  
He knows she does, but _what if?_   "I should write her a letter."   
  
"You wrote five," Hercules says flatly. "I think she's well aware of your financial situation."   
  
Alex nods slowly. "You're right."   
  
They breathe a sigh of relief.   
  
He leaps up then, and walks out. "I should tell her myself."   
  
The other three groan. Lafayette stares after him. "Perhaps he doesn't understand English."   
  
\-   
  
Eliza raises an eyebrow when he enters her room. He takes a deep breath, knowing he might be throwing away all he has right now, and rattles on his poverty, and how he's frankly, no one, and—   
  
She cuts him off. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Alex?"   
  
"No," he splutters, backtracking and apologizing until he sees Eliza laughing. He looks at the ground, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. The chatter of the guests outside float through the door. "It's just...I don't want to disappoint you. Will you relish being a poor man's wife, unable to provide for your life?"   
  
She smiles, her face softening. "I relish being your wife," she says simply. "I always will."

-

IT GROWS INTO A FLAME; Eliza is the best thing that's happened to him, and sometimes he wonders if he's simply dreaming.

 

She makes him feel loved, despite all that he is. She's an open book, and she looks at him like he's her world. Like he's something wonderful, a work of art. She forgives him, over and over, and is so incredibly patient he wants to cry out of gratitude.

  
It takes a while, but he tells her about his past. She holds him tight as he trembles and rakes up all the memories he's tried so hard to bury, repeatedly telling him that she loves him, that he'll never be alone again, until that truth settles deep in his bones.

  
She admits she begged the General to send him home. But after seeing her flushed face and big belly, he can't muster up any anger. Besides, nobody has wanted him around like that for a long time and honestly, he loves it.   
  
A mere week later, a letter arrives from the General. She doesn't look at him when she hands it to him.   
  
He's needed back on the battlefield. A thrill runs through him at the thought of returning, but it comes with a biting guilt. He's barely seen Eliza since he became Washington's right hand man; and yet, he's been dreaming of this for so long.   
  
He looks up to see her already staring at him. She smiles — it still makes his heart stutter — and tells him to go. He doesn't hesitate.   
  
\-   
  
After the war, nothing is ever the same again.   
  
He jumps when Eliza drops a plate. The sound is loud and sharp, like bullets firing, and it reminds him too much of the battles. Instead of picking up the glass shards, she stares at him where he is pressed against the wall, eyes wide and bracing himself for a hit. Slowly, he relaxes, mumbling an apology and offering to help her clean up. She doesn't say anything; simply looks at him like he's the one that's broken. He's not.   
  
It's not until he wakes up shaking, gasping that he realises yes, he is an absolute mess and this thing the doctor called it — battle fatigue — is a lot worse than he imagined. Sleep doesn't make it go away; it makes it worse.   
  
Eliza's awake as well, running circles on his back and coaxing him to breathe, because for a moment he'd forgotten everything, everything except the blood, the deaths— _breathe_ , she says more firmly.   
  
He does.   
  
A few years later, the tables turn; he hugs her tight as she sobs. "It's okay," he murmurs into her ears. "Peggy is in a better place now."

-  
  
IT SPIRALS OUT OF CONTROL; their love is too strong, it turns into a storm, and both of them are too stubborn to back down.   
  
He spends most of his time holed up in his office. When he finally emerges, it is late and the children are already asleep. Eliza waits up for him, but she stops after realizing he sleeps in his office. They talk less as his work piles up.   
  
He finally finds time to make it home for dinner, but they barely start eating before he excuses himself for a conference call. Surely family can wait. History is in the making as they move and breathe; and sacrifices must be made.

  
He misses one of their birthdays for a cabinet meeting. Eliza is, needless to say, furious.   
  
She goes on about being present for their kids, being an actual father, putting family first — but doesn't she know his job is earning the children a future? Or making history? Or making sure he's a husband worthy of someone like her?   
  
He doesn't say any of that, of course. She would never understand. Instead, he says he has more work to do and shuts himself in the study.   
  
\-   
  
_Treasury secretary_ , he says with pride, his eyes shining at the prospect. Her hands clench. How dare he, after all this time; isn't he satisfied? Will he ever be satisfied?   
  
"More work." Her voice is flat.   
  
He tilts his head. "You're not happy."   
  
"Of course I'm not." She starts pacing around. "You're barely home, and when you are, you stay in that forsaken study to do more work. It's always more work. What now? Are you going to live in your office?"   
  
He opens his mouth, but she raises a hand. "Look around you. Is this not enough? Am I not enough?"   


His lips press together in a thin line. The silence stabs into her like a knife. "I see."  
  
"Look around, we're so lucky to be alive." He takes a step forward, something glinting in his eyes — madness, she thinks. "We have to take every chance we've got. This is my chance to leave a legacy."   
  
"We don't need a legacy!"   
  
" _You_ don't need a legacy."   
  
She gapes, trying, searching for the man she fell in love with. It isn't the one standing before her. "What happened to you, Alexander Hamilton?"   
  
He winces, but remains stubborn. Funny how that trait of his has changed from endearing to downright infuriating; how the little things that she used to love now add fuel to her anger. "I'm still the same."   
  
"No," she shakes her head. "You swore to be around for them. When was the last time you actually talked to your kids?"   
  
He looks away, clenching his jaw. It feels as if they are standing on the edge of a cliff, precariously close to falling. "Sometimes, I wonder why you even bother coming home."   
  
That's a wrong thing to say. His back stiffens at the implication of her words: _we don't need you here_ . "You don't want me here."   
  
"That's not what I said."   
  
"It's what you meant." His eyes flash, before he glances away again. "Stop looking at me like that."   
  
There's no point arguing; they both know how it will end. She stands up, and he turns back to his work, clearly relieved. Each footstep to the door is slow and heavy — it may be days, a week maybe, before they talk again, and even then it may result in another argument.   
  
Her hand hovers over the doorknob. "Will you be joining us on the trip to Albany, then?"   
  
The rustling of papers stops. When she chances a look over her shoulder, he seems to be seriously considering it — a summer free of politics and hostility, a summer with Angelica and his wife, a summer to catch up with his kids — is that enough for him?   
  
He pauses for too long. Finally, he clears his throat. She already knows what he will say.   
  
"I have to get my plan through Congress."   
  
She doesn't waste breath on words; that's his expertise. She simply walks out and shuts the door. 

-  
  
IT OBLITERATES THEM like a supernova, destroying everyone and everything in its wake. In the aftermath, he isn't sure just how many casualties there are.   
  
The Reynolds Pamphlet is a calculated risk — but he's bad at math. He thinks he has nothing to lose; the friend who would tell him to let it go is in the ground, his family would understand. And Eliza—   
  
He loves her. That should be enough.   
  
He's not sure what pains him more — Phillip's look of betrayal when Jefferson and Madison show him the Pamphlet, or Angelica's confession when she storms into his office.   
  
The answer? Neither.   
  
The real storm arrives at home; at soon as he steps in, she tosses a paper ball at him. After unfolding it, he realises it's a love letter he'd penned a few months ago.   
  
"There's a lot more from where that came from," she says. Her face is a myriad of emotions — her eyes scream betrayal, burning with hatred, but the tears spilling down her face and her trembling lips suggest otherwise. He's wrong — she is fire, and when you fight fire with fire—   
  
Someone's bound to get burnt.   
  
"Am I that dull, that you have to find another woman to excite you?"   
  
Her voice is rough, a strange timbre he's never heard before. He's not sure what to do. "Eliza."   
  
"I should take the kids and leave," she continues, as if he didn't speak. "I can't fathom the thought of sleeping in the bed you defiled. It's sickening.”

  
Seeing her like this, angry and bitter, splinters his heart. What has he done? "I'm sorry."   
  
"If you're really sorry, you would've stopped after the first time." She shakes her head, a cold smile on her lips. It's so unlike Eliza it sends goosebumps across his skin. "You were with her for a year. I'm not a fool, Alexander."   
  
He shuts his mouth then, because it's true. Even now, he's sure his body would betray him if he sees Maria again.   
  
She knows this too, it seems, because her eyes flash with a fury he's never seen before. "I don't wish to see you."   


He calls her. She turns away. He walks to her. She pushes him away. He calls her again. She yells at him. He stops. She throws their letters into the fireplace.   
  
They burn.   
  
\-   
  
He's never experienced anything more excruciating than seeing his son die before his eyes.   
  
He hushes Phillip, tells him to save his breath and stay alive, and a voice inside him grows louder and louder, telling him maybe if he never cheated with Maria Reynolds, maybe George Eacker wouldn't have slandered him, maybe Phillip wouldn't have challenged him, maybe his son would be well instead of fighting for his life right now, maybe, maybe, maybe—   
  
Maybe Eliza wouldn't be utterly destroyed.   
  
She is a picture of absolute devastation, fretting over Phillip, questions bursting forth, tears streaming down, down, down. "Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this? Phillip, breathe, stay alive. How— why—"   
  
"Who did this?" She asks finally, and something burns in her eyes as she turns and grabs him by his collar. "Alexander, did you know?"   
  
He's wrecked her, he can see how she's barely holding herself together, and it's all his fault. Words fail him, and he can only stare at her, hoping she sees the apology in him, threatening to tear him apart. _Eliza, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ —   
  
She turns to her firstborn. He closes his eyes, wishing he can escape this, that this is all a nightmare, and he's going to wake up now—   
  
His eyelids fly open when she screams.

-  
  
IT RISES FROM THE ASHES like a phoenix reborn, the dust and debris of their love rebuilding something new. It's not quite like the old thing — it would never be — but he's happy with it and so is she.   
  
Forgiveness is a foreign word. Not because he is vengeful, but because he's never found the need for it, until her. He wants her forgiveness— craves it, needs it like the oxygen he breathes, because without her he's drowning, and his writings will never get him out this time.   
  
He sees Phillip's face every night. Sometimes, in his dreams, he's the one that shoots his son. He starts to take long walks in the dead of night. It helps him think, and sleep doesn't come easy anyway.   
  
Eliza ignores his very presence, and the children follow suit. With a pang, he realizes it isn't much of a change; he's never really spent time with them since becoming treasury secretary.   
  
He lurches awake after yet another dream, and immediately sees Phillip's jacket, draped over a chair because Eliza can't bear to keep it away. The entire house is haunted with his son's ghost, marks and memories on every surface; how can he move on when he's reminded of his loss everywhere he turns?   
  
With an almost feral growl, he tears his office apart, crushing papers and reports and ripping everything he sees. When there's nothing left to destroy, he punches the wall repeatedly, until the physical pain overwhelms him and he falls to his knees, tears falling down his face. If only, if only, if only—   
  
A soft gasp makes him turn around. His vision is blurry, but it looks like Eliza standing at the doorway. He's certain he's dreaming, until she comes closer and takes his hands in hers — gingerly, as though she's expecting the mere touch to burn her. "Alexander."   
  
"Eliza," he chokes out. He's full out sobbing now, but he doesn't care; there's never been any shame or secrets between them. Until he ruined it. "He's everywhere. I can't t-take it anymore."   
  
Her resolve dissolves, and a strangled sound escapes her, though she's quick to clam it down. He stands shakily, staring unseeingly at his hands — they're red, and he can't feel them — until Eliza pulls him to the bathroom and rummages in the medical cabinet. He watches blankly as she fixes him up, wrapping his hands in bandages. "We need to leave," he croaks, his voice a dry rasp. "Anywhere but here."   
  
She stops, and a teardrop falls before she nods. She finishes up and moves away from him, her previously worried face now a mask of calm. He doesn't say anything when she leaves.

The next day, she's back to ignoring him, but he feels a spark of hope warm his entire being when she gathers the children and tells them about moving out. Maybe there's a chance of redemption.   
  
The move to their new home in Harlem is the liveliest the Hamiltons have been for a while. The kids are excited — though grief still slows them down — and the heavy air around them seems to dissipate. There's an overgrown garden at the back, choked with weeds and left for dead. He gets to work on it, first because he can't bear the sight, then as a form of therapy. It's silly, but every bud and seedling he manages to bring to life convinces him that he is capable of good; that he can be good. Eliza wouldn't laugh, though — she'd look at him fondly and tell him he is already good. The thought is like salt to a festering wound. He has to fix himself, become the father and husband he wants to be, instead of an absentee.   
  
He finds her in her room — she barely leaves it — lying on the bed, facing away from him. He takes a breath, and lets the words speak for him. They are slow to come, and inadequate to fully describe what he wants to say, but it doesn't matter. He just needs her to listen.   
  
"So long as you let me stay here by your side," he finishes, his voice cracking on the last word, "That would be enough."   
  
Would it really, though? Is it enough to heal all the hurt from all they've gone through?   
  
Movement from the corner of his eye pulls him from his thoughts. Eliza gets up, and walks out of the room.   
  
\-   
  
If he was amazed by his wife before, he's awestruck now. She follows him on his walks, and though she never says a word, never gives him more than a glance, he's grateful for her company.   
  
This part of town is tranquil, a sharp contrast to when they were still downtown. Here, away from the distractions of Congress, he takes in his surroundings. He pauses.

  
_Look around, Eliza._ _  
_   
She does.   
  
\-   
  
"It's quiet uptown," he says. She doesn't reply, but he rambles anyway, knowing that it's better than the silence that hangs over them. "Do you like it?"   
  
Though the pain in her eyes never really goes away, it seems fainter, and sometimes he even sees her laugh. He doesn't have the luxury of being the reason for her happiness, but it comforts him to know that she's getting better.     
  
A hand slips through his, effectively stopping his speech. He instinctively rubs his thumb over hers, then stills, hardly daring to breathe.   
  
"It's quiet uptown," she says.   
  
He shatters.   
  
\-   
  
He helps out with the children, and slowly, he gains their trust back. John, the one who's hated him most, hugs him one night. He sees Eliza smiling at the doorway. It makes him feel like he's finally done something right, after all his past wrongs. 

 

She asks him to stay when he grabs his coat. Then she leads him to Phillip's room. It physically hurts to be there — Phillip's absence seems to be more prominent, weighing heavily on his shoulders. And yet, ironically, the grief seems to ebb away.  
  
She tells him that it may help. It does.   
  
\-   
  
IT OUTLASTS THEM; a legacy they never knew they had. It outlives them, being almost immortal, with his financial system and her orphanage as testament.   


As the bullet rushes towards him, his thoughts whirl, faster, faster, _faster_. Is this his legacy? Is Burr the last face he'll ever see? How had they turned from friends to enemies? Is this where death gets him, at last? Should he run? Fire his gun? Let it be? He's not ready to die; Eliza is still waiting at home, his children are still asleep, and he's only left them a note and bills to pay. How, how how—

  
It's only a second in reality, but time seems to slow, leaving him staring at the face of death. Distantly, he sees Burr seven feet ahead, a face full of horror. Then even further, he sees Phillip. Laurens. Peggy. Washington. His mother. But then closer, just an arms length away, is Eliza, radiant, smiling, beautiful. He isn't sure if it's just a mirage or she's truly there but it comforts him, all his thoughts fading to calm.   
  
_This is where it gets me. This would be enough._ _  
_   
As the bullet strikes him, sending waves of pain through his body—   
  
He thinks of her. And he lets go.   
  
\-   
  
She's seen so many deaths, it is but a memory to her. By grace, she manages to have a few minutes with Alexander before he breathes his last. Unfortunately, that also means he dies in her arms.   
  
"My love, take your time," she's crying, he's crying, but he manages a smile for her. The pain is agonizing — like half of her soul is being ripped away. "I'll see you on the other side."   
  
She wants to scream. How dare he agree to a duel, after the first one tore their family apart. How dare he give up now, just when things are starting to get better. How dare he.  But there's no anger behind her thoughts — they have made their peace, and she is content. She will see him again; it's only a matter of time. It will hurt, it is hurting, but she will get through it.   
  
"I love you, Alexander Hamilton," she says. His breath hitches, and comes out in a painful wheeze. "Never forget that."   
  
"Betsey," is all he says, before the light fades from his eyes and he goes limp in her arms. But it's enough — his name for her is filled with love, it's a confession in itself. She pushes his hair away from his face, and kisses his forehead.   
  
"It took fighting a war for us to meet," she whispers. "It was worth it."   
  
\-   
  
For the rest of her life, she values every second, working at an almost equal speed as Alex had. She understands why he wrote like he was running out of time now — she feels death creeping up on her, an ever growing presence as she ages, threatening to steal her away before she accomplishes her work. She hurries on.   
  
He's always present in her mind, a source of comfort, nostalgia, sometimes grief. It's hard on her family — especially Angie — but they get back up. They always do.

  
It scares her though, that everything her husband does will fade after he's gone. His enemies try to tear his reputation, and she fights back,  protecting his legacy because no one else will.   
  
But little does she know after she closes her eyes for the last time, after she sees Alex, holding out a hand to her, after she hugs Angelica and Peggy, their love lives on. The first private orphanage takes in hundreds of children. The financial system supports families all over America.   
  
Their story gets told.

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of unedited but hope you enjoyed it nonetheless; constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


End file.
